Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(22)

“But it’s not the one in which I look sexiest, in my opinion.”

He just looks at me as if I’m stupid. “You look like sheet-clawing sex in all of them.”

His comment is so forthright and matter-of-fact, my knees nearly buckle.

“So what is he getting you?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” It isn’t until I speak that I realize my voice came out a little too wispy.

He nods at the pictures. “You’re giving him a gorgeous picture of yourself, what’s he giving you?”

“I told him chocolate.”

“Chocolate,” he says flatly. “Really.”

“Yup. Anything chocolate totally wins me over.”

I gather the pics and carefully slip them back into the envelope.

“He hasn’t answered my calls,” I whisper.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” he whispers back.

I glance up at him in confusion. “I feel like I’m screwing it up, Tahoe. Like there’s something about me that just can’t…make it work with a guy.”

“You’re not screwing it up. How can you, Regina? You’re too good for the guy.”

“Relationships take effort! Which is why you choose not to be in one, am I right? Cause you can’t be bothered.”

“Pass me the phone, I’ll have words with him.” His hand comes down over mine as he tries to take my phone.

I draw back, instinctively leaping at the electricity his touch provoked. “Haha, what kind of words?”

“Like he needs to call you, or he’ll have to deal with me. I’ll tell him if I wanted you to get all f*cked up over a guy, you’d be dating me.”

“You don’t date, remember? You’re a ladies’ man. Of many ladies, and you don’t think you can stop or else you’d at least try to get serious with one.”

“I have nothing to offer her. I’m not what a one-man woman needs.”

Silence.

He stretches out his hand. “Give me the phone, I’m calling him.”

“You are doing no such thing.”

“Tell me one good thing that you see in him and I won’t call.”

“He’s not a ladies’ man.” I grin as I gather my pictures and head to the door. “Thanks, T-Rex.”



*



I arrive at my apartment shortly afterward and head straight for the fridge to make myself a sandwich. As I take my first bite, I turn over the manila envelope and skim the pictures again. Only seven pictures slide onto my kitchen counter.

I tap the envelope against the edge, then lower my sandwich and peer inside. Empty.

I call Tahoe’s cell. “Did I lose a pic at your office?”

“Negative,” he says lazily, as if he’s got his feet up on his desk or on the couch or somewhere.

The news doesn’t make me happy.

“It must have fallen out,” I groan, then thank him and hang up. I have a momentary panic when I think about that picture appearing somewhere on some playboy site. My worst pic, too—somewhere out there. Then I shake the thought aside, pray that it won’t fall into the wrong hands, and turn over the picture Tahoe suggested I send to Trent. With a red magic marker, I scribble on the back, Merry Christmas, xo, Regina.

I package it in a pre-paid envelope, then head downstairs to ship it off.





CHRISTMAS


Rachel invited me to tag along with her and Saint on Christmas Eve to dinner and the poshest club in the city, but I’m exhausted after all the selling. My feet are killing me and my body is starving for a full meal after all the rapid-fire snacking during work breaks. I settle for Skyping with Trent that evening and having the turkey microwave dinner I picked up for myself. He sent me a text this last week.



Thank you for the gift. Going up in a frame soon! I guess I better send you those chocolates soon. Skype?



I’m happy and relieved that he liked the photo. It makes me think of Tahoe—and how his eyes looked so blue when he looked at the pictures. I’ve been wondering what he thought of them, if he really liked them. I’ve even been wondering if a part of me wanted him to see them, see me, feminine and lovely. Or at least trying to be.

I attribute these thoughts to my exhaustion, but I’m still thinking of him after Trent and I Skype and he hangs up to have dinner with his family. I settle down to watch Netflix and heat myself the microwave turkey dinner—there was no way I was going to cook a turkey just for me. I don’t think Rachel and I were ever even able to fit one into our tiny oven.

As the amusing little movie How the Grinch Stole Christmas plays and I fork pieces of turkey and rice into my mouth, I want to wish my T-Rex happy holidays but I don’t want to do it too directly, so I grab my phone and tweet him.



Merry Christmas @tahoeroth



My landline rings less than ten minutes later. I pick up and swallow the last bit of turkey in my mouth before answering.

“Hey.” I hear Tahoe’s familiar baritone on the other end of the line. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

I clutch the receiver tightly, totally not expecting his voice in my ear. “Hey. What are you up to?”

“Hitting this club with Carmichael and a few other friends. Want to come?”